I've updated those pages you and X Knight and Misha read a couple nights back lemme know if you want to check 'em out and I'll PM you. I doubt JaD, ISS, and everyone else would appreciate me spamming your precious Henry thread

I've updated those pages you and X Knight and Misha read a couple nights back lemme know if you want to check 'em out and I'll PM you. I doubt JaD, ISS, and everyone else would appreciate me spamming your precious Henry thread

No, actually I really enjoyed reading those. You're talking about your novel, right? I was going to jump in and mention that those were very well done. I wish you the best in getting those published because they were quality

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"Dream as if you'll live forever, live as if you'll die today."
James Dean

No, actually I really enjoyed reading those. You're talking about your novel, right? I was going to jump in and mention that those were very well done. I wish you the best in getting those published because they were quality

I didn't know thanks man! Yeah, pimpin' my book again wherever I can. There's a new user, Misha, who gave me some really good feedback that I utilized. Ultimatehero also graced us with his presence and put in a few cents. I'm really grateful to the Hype for all that stuff.

Here, I'll spoiler tag 'em so as to not inconvenience anyone

Spoiler!!! Click to Read!:

PART ONE: Power Unlooked For

CHAPTER I – BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON

It was dark, and the air was cool. The White Wolf would have normally stood out among the dense brush and gnarled brambles. One might mistake him for a ghost, one of many such claimants to the hauntings of this forested valley of sinister mist and haunting moonlight, where so many men had met so many terrible deaths over the centuries, but indeed he was as much flesh and blood as the young warrior he accompanied who, with his dark hooded tunic, blended unseen into the surroundings. The wolf was careful with his feet, setting them softly on the ground with each cautious step, head low, back straight, tail between his legs. Where this would have been an expression of fear among the wolves of the wild, this White Wolf was calm, fearless, and eerily so. But his companion was beginning to grow restless. The howl of some loathsome creature beyond inhumanity, beyond damnation, had echoed throughout the forest over an hour before, followed by a warning call from the Guardian Towers. But after that, nothing.

And here they had hid themselves, in the brush amid the twisting, writhing trees, looking, smelling, listening, waiting. But there had been no sign since then. No movement between the trees, no rustling of branches. No stench of death that was so indicative of the werewolves of Kânavad.

Though the air hung still about them, there was a chill that cut through it like a knife. It was more than just a feeling of cold; it was a foreboding that played on the mind. For in this place the Wolven called Degos Enath it was said all manner of fell, unseen horrors lurked in the shadows of the trees, phantoms of death and worse.

He crawled silently, slithering through the brush like a snake. In the light of the moon his fierce eyes cut through the shadows upon his face: a piercing blue, determined, without fear, ever roving this way and that. The only flesh exposed were his hands, the pale fingers of his left holding a tight grip on a strong bow, between his clenched teeth an arrow, ready at a moment’s notice to cut through the air and into the flesh of these accursed beasts, somewhere among the shadows.

But the Wolf that walked before him was as unique, and even as dangerous, as the werewolves themselves. He was the only White Wolf in all of Ánovén, the first in twelve thousand years and more: Elekan, a direct descendant of those eldest of the White Wolves, held in veneration by the Wolven. But he spent his time here with the one he was proud to call friend, in the thick of war unceasing, forgoing the safety of temples and citadels so as to be on the front lines to protect the very people who had given him shelter in his time of need.

This connection between the White Wolf and the young warrior ran deep, deeper than blood, deeper than soul. It was an unbreakable bond of the spirit forged by a fragment of creation itself, but also by death, the dying plea of a mother whose son was now orphaned in the world, far removed from his kin.

“Anything yet?” whispered the young man, matching the passing breeze as its invisible tendrils played at the leaves and branches around them, and the moon above shone on them like silver.

Aktethion, Elekan replied in the negative. The word rang in the other’s mind. Nothing was not the response he’d been hoping for…

But he spoke too soon, for as the breeze died away a foul scent caught the wolf’s nose. It was putridly pungent, reeking of blood and death. The smell of wetness on matted fur… the padding of feet on underbrush…

The young Wolven had caught the scent as well. He raised his head and inhaled deeply. “Another raiding pack…” he guessed correctly. His eyes shimmered, and from under his tunic radiated a soft golden light tinged with hints of blue. “Twenty, maybe thirty at the most…” His voice trailed off and his eyes darted this way and that, searching. “Nac’vae,” he cursed. “Where are you?”

The wolf could now hear the audible growls and barks amidst the rustling trees. Commands being issued, orders being followed… As they drew nearer a cloud passed over the moon, concealing their faint silhouettes against the darkness, wraiths draped in black fur armed with fangs of poisonous, yellowed daggers… And still with no sign of anyone else.

He could wait no longer. Standing to his full height the young warrior drew his bow taut, and as the moon broke free of the bonds of passing clouds the silver arrowhead glinted coldly. This night like so many others before it would end in bloodshed, one way or the other…

* * *

With a thunderous CRASH the horde charged through the trees, like a thundercloud rumbling through the cloudy night, and as the moonlight flashed upon their dark armor and the thundering of their horses’ hooves filled the air the tall, twisting trees canopied above their heads like some foreboding cathedral. Leading the charge was Kéle’il of Néktas, a tall, proud man of high Wolven descent. He was fair-skinned with eyes like ice and hair of a deep brown that fell past his shoulders, and when the moon shone upon his armor he appeared as one robed in obsidian.

How many tours did this trip count? Twenty? He’d forgotten how many times he had been assigned to patrol this godforsaken forest. Kéle’il pulled hard on his horse’s reins, forcing the steed to a sharp halt as a fell silence descended over the valley, and the horde behind him followed suit.

Kéle’il raised his head, listening intently as his eyes passed over the endless spires of trees in the distance, and silhouetted against the silvery sphere of the moon he beheld the Western Guardian Tower, its foundations laid along a lone promontory of dark rock, standing like a silent sentinel over the forest from high in the mountains. The soldiers nicknamed it the Left Hand of Laros, one of two that had guarded this dark valley since the first years of the South-realm. The warriors here were in a state of ceaseless caution, their swords ever sharpened, their bows ever notched, ever on guard for the attack that would inevitably come out of the night.

For a long while the only sounds in Kéle’il’s ears were the gentle breeze and the chirping of crickets rising in hidden symphonies from the recesses of rotting logs and moistened leaves. And then in the distance he heard it: a bloodcurdling howl, echoing from deep within the forest. The moon hung ominously above them as Kéle’il craned his neck, listening for the source.

Kéle’il stopped and shook his head grimly. “Worse. And damn the lot of them,” he cursed, spurring his horse forward. “Raiders. To arms!” he commanded. Kéle’il shifted the reins to his left hand, cried, “Bé-tathálij ktildo!” and almost instantly a long saber flashed into being in his outstretched right hand. With the horde behind him they charged into the thick shadows of Degos Enath, as the howling of werewolves enveloped them in haunting uncertainty.

Kéle’il pushed his horse harder and harder, leaping over a rotting log, sprinting through the dense brush at a breakneck pace. Kéle’il ducked his head this way and that to avoid low-lying branches. Light and shadow flew past his face; eyes fiercely focused ahead beyond the branches that reached out as though to snatch him from the saddle.

On a sudden a black shape hurled out of the darkness of the forest and took out two riders behind him. The sounds of rent armor and vicious snarls rose up out of the underbrush as they hit the ground. A pyre of silver flame erupted and caught the wood, glowing bright amidst the darkness, and Kéle’il smiled; they were close.

Hacking his sword like a machete they burst into a clearing, and came upon a scene of utter chaos: some twenty-odd werewolves, Kânín, those thralls of the Betrayer who ever sought to maraud their way into Ánovén’s borders and ransack her people. Amid the carnage Kéle’il made out the silvery blur of a White Wolf darting between the werewolves, leaving a trail of blood and fire in its wake, and in the rear Kéle’il could see one lone warrior, barely visible even in the moonlight, fighting from within the brush. A hood shadowed his face, and from a quiver slung about his shoulders he fired silver-tipped arrows from a strong bow in blinding succession into the fray, following the White Wolf’s path almost as though they’d rehearsed it. When his quiver was emptied he leapt forward, and Kéle’il saw him summon an exquisite yet familiar sword, long and curved and deathly sharp, flashing with the cold bloodlust of the moon that shone upon the eversilver blade. Fire sprang all around him as he cut through the pack without fear.

“Attack!” Kéle’il cried, and the riders leapt off their horses, shouting the names of fabled warriors and swords and kings as they dove headfirst into the mayhem. What followed was a blurred memory of yellow fangs and black fur and red blood, and silver fire, paint on the canvas of the thick shadows of night. The White Wolf slashed with his claws and bit with his teeth, and the werewolves died from that deadly bite, snarling and growling and slashing and biting, a whirlwind of black fur and white.

After a long while the werewolves’ numbers had finally fallen, and Kéle’il stood staring down the devilish eyes of the pack leader. It was five feet tall at the shoulder, black-furred with a powerful chest and densely muscled shoulders and forelegs. Its face resembled a wolf’s, but larger and with a wider snout, and its teeth were as large as daggers. It snarled and barked, attempting to intimidate, and foul, poisonous saliva fell in great globs from its jowls. Its fur had been singed by its dying pack-mates, caked with the blood of felled enemies, altogether loathsome and depraved to look upon. Kéle’il stood with his sword at the ready as they circled each other, fighting as hard mentally as physically, each trying to pierce the other’s mind and preempt his next move. Kéle’il feinted right, but the werewolf pounced to its left. The rider was caught at unawares and the werewolf laid into him with a powerful shoulder, launching Kéle’il some yards back and into the trunk of a gnarled rowan.

Pain shot through Kéle’il’s back as he hit; his armor cracked, the breastplate caved in by the blow, serving more harm than good. The werewolf paced around him, cornering its prey and savoring the taste of flesh and blood. Unless the moonlight was playing some trick on his mind, Kéle’il almost thought he could see the thing smiling. Kéle’il smiled back at his foe through his pain.

“Well, if that’s how you want to play it…” he said as he got to his feet, yanking his armor off. It hit the ground with a sharp clang, and Kéle’il nonchalantly brushed some detritus from his shoulder before whirling his sword to the ready, diving forward, hurling the weapon in a mighty arc for the beast’s neck. But again, somehow the werewolf dodged out of the way at the last blink of an eye, rolling low and taking the high ground behind. The beast reared up on its hind legs and roared, then crouched and launched itself toward Kéle’il. He reached with his blade to impale the beast, but without warning an arrow flew out of the darkness and pierced its shoulder.

As the werewolf landed with a dull thud to the ground, sliding to a stop inches from Kéle’il’s feet, Degos Enath fell silent as a tomb. Kéle’il exhaled and surveyed the grim scene around him: the werewolves had wantonly ripped many of the horses to pieces during the chaos, and spiraling streaks of crimson lay upon the fresh powders of the odd summer snows in this oddest of places in the world. Kéle’il had to step over one severed head as he made his way through, assessing his men.

As he looked among the dead he saw men he’d fought alongside for decades laying among them, their throats ripped away, entrails splayed on the soil like worms, and in his heart Kéle’il said a prayer for each one he passed.

Without warning a fell snarl chased away the silence, and another black shape burst from the between the trees, fur as black as shadow, claws outstretched and mouth wide and ravenous. There was no time to react, and Kéle’il prayed to the Shaper for a quick death. But the thing burst afire, spraying Kéle’il with gore and ash. Kéle’il coughed, wiping blood and bile from his face, and when he looked up standing before him was the hooded warrior, his face still hidden in shadow, ornate bow in hand and an empty quiver slung about his shoulders. Standing beside him, white fur stained with rubies of blood, crimson around the mouth and muzzle, was the White Wolf…

Kéle’il arched an eyebrow and, without taking his eyes off either wolf or warrior, walked over to the unconscious pack leader. He knelt and pulled the arrow out of the beast’s flesh and found that it wasn’t tipped with silver, or even iron, but with wood. Kéle’il brought the arrowhead to his nose and sniffed.

“Yalikeb…” he whispered knowingly. And then he smiled to the two standing before him.

Throwing back the hood that had concealed his face in shadow, the young man held his head high. Deep black hair fell in sharp bangs about his face, but from beneath those dark shears shone piercing blue eyes, eyes like those of the White Wolf standing proudly at his side. Faint stubble framed his mouth and jaw, and his thin lips gave no sign of either joy or sadness, merely focus, before turning upward in a small welcoming smile. He nodded to Kéle’il, and dangling from a thin chain of eversilver around his neck was a pale bluish crystal, which he immediately tucked under his tunic.

“How good of the Crown to grace Degos Enath with its presence,” Kéle’il sneered, only half-mockingly.

And all who were present recognized him at once: Mathion, heir of Hâr-Tharion the king. Many bent their knee to him, but Mathion acknowledged even the simplest nod of a man as more than enough to greet him.

“I suppose you have a reason for sparing this one, then?” Kéle’il asked.

“You know as well as I that the most powerful weapon of war is information, my friend,” Mathion replied. His voice was quiet, his words deliberate, but when he passed Kéle’il Mathion clasped the rider’s hand firmly and smiled. “And besides, I’ve often found that the higher the rank, the further back they’ll be in the pack. Now move aside, there isn’t much time.” Surely his words rang true, for he had no sooner spoken than more howls rose up in the north.